Tell It to The Frogs
by zobawbaw
Summary: "The monsters are gone." "Really?" Doubtful. "I killed the monsters. That's what fathers do." ― Fiona Wallace About Dean's daughter, Bobby. Some DeanxOFC, SamxAmelia Oneshote


**Was inspired to do this all of the sudden. Don't know why, as I haven't written anything in ****_forever_****, but I'm glad this out of my head and on paper. Or, well, web page.**

**I have thought of writing a longer fic (as in not a oneshot, which is scary) about Dean's wife, who I mention (albeit, very briefly) is a necromancer. It involves a lot more Cas and shmexy times, and I'm kinda thrilled by the prospect. Now, if only I can sit down and write it.**

**It should also be noted that I'm not a spelling or grammar freak, so this is probably riddled with errors.**

**I always pictured Dean as a really good dad. He took care of Sam growing up and that's always stuck with me. I feel like this story misses most of the blood and gore and, you know, ****_supernatural _****stuff. But it's fluffy and I'm sappy sometimes, so here you go.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ****_Supernatural_**** or any of its characters. I only own the plot and my characters Bobby, John, and Will.**

**Enjoy and review**

* * *

Bobby has never liked her full name.

Sometimes, Bobby really wishes she had been named Kim or Lauren or Hailey or even Tiffany. But when your parents are sentimental freaks, you end up named after most of your father's deceased family and friends (including the angelic ones).

To be fair, her parents expected to have more kids, but the trumatic experience that led to her being born (in the back of the Impala on Old Road 37) made this impossible. So, instead of being Mary Joan Winchester (after her grandparents), her birth certificate from Bloomington, IN reads Mary-Joan Bobby Ellen Cass Winchester.

Multiple middle names are common in her family. Her dad and uncle share the names John Campbell (and supposedly, her uncle Adam was named John Adam Henry Michael). But she's got the motherload, not four, not five, but six names (which is nice, because it's sentimental, but sucks when you're filling out standerdized tests).

She's always insited people call her Bobby (never Bobbie or (Godforbid) Bobbi), but her family never listened. Her mother calls her Mary-Joan or MJ or Ellen or Cassie. Cas calls her Mary (which she doesn't mind) or some rambling in Enochian that roughly translates to "Daughter of Dean and Margaret" (which she should mind, but it sounds pretty). Uncle Sam calls her Mouthful or Polyalias.

But her father is the worst.

Sometimes he just calls her one or two of the names in no order ("Get up, Joan Ellen!" "Mary Bobby, do NOT make me come up there!"). It can be nicknames from any of them, Joanie and Bob being the most common.

Most of the time it's baby girl (only Baby on special occasions (that's the Impala's name), like when she had her first panic attack or got in that bad car accident), sugar, peaches, cutie, and sweetie pie.

Oh God, sweetie pie.

Her father's affinite for the desert had snuck its way into the nicknaming process. Dad had wondered exactly what was in a sweetie pie and had started calling her different pie flavors. Cherry, rhubarb, lemon merange; you name a type, she's been called it.

She tries to explain it to her boyfriend once, while they're eating pizza and drinking beer on the couch for her nineteenth birthday. He says "Wow. They really love you." This almost causes her to cry her eyes out.

Dad had wanted her to do things with her life other than hunting, but he wanted her close to home at a community college. Bobby had fought and screamed at him, begging to go somewhere outside of Kansas. He had refused; she had run away to Boston under the name Roberta Helm. She had told Will the truth after she'd slept with him the first time.

So, that night after he goes to sleep, she creeps out of bed and goes to Walmart. She buys a disposible phone and, for the first time in 8 months, calls her Dad.

* * *

"Remind me to run this over in the morning," Dean mutters as he reaches over to turn on the light. His wife mutters, "Yes, dear," and sighs. Neither of them were sleeping, but the screech of Metallica had freaked them out anyways.

Dean sighs, looking at the phone with bleary eyes before putting it to his ear with a gruff, "Yeah?"

"Daddy?"

He freezes. It's been nineteen years and three hours since she was born and she can stop him cold every time.

"Baby?"

His wife sits up next to him, eyes wide and frantic, and he can hear sniffiling on the other end. "Hi, Dad."

He can't move, but his brain is racing for the worst possible situation. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did you have an attack? Do you need-"

"No, I'm fine. I just...I just needed to hear your voice."

Dean feels himself exhale in relief. Few things terrify him more than his daughter getting hurt. When she had her first panic attack at 13, he had almost ripped that doctor to shreds trying to figure out what was going on.

"Okay... Oh, sugar, it's so good to hear your voice."

"You too, Daddy. It was just... it's my birthday and I missed you guys and, and," she blubbers.

"Honey, where are you?"

"At school." Oh, thank God. He'd thought she'd been in some crack house in Cali or following a boy to New York to support his career as a poet. Or dead, but let's not dwell on that.

"Where? I'll come get you."

"No, no, don't. I'm sorry, but I can't. The new semester just-"

"Cherry, please."

Dean hears a choked sob at the nickname, and then a, "I've gotta go. I'm sorry. Please don't try and find me."

"No, Mar-"

And she hangs up.

* * *

Dean will be this first to admit he's overprotective of his daughter. But he has good reason.

It started when she was born. The hunt had been fairly simple, a quick salt-and-burn in Southern Indiana. He had wanted to stick Maggie in a hotel room with Cas as her baby sitter, but Sam had pointed out that it would be better if she was with them instead of far away from a hospital.

They had been driving along, the road slick with a mix of salt and sleet. The Impala's tires slid and they hit a tree. Not hard enough to seriously hurt anyone, but hard enough to put a 35 weeks pregnant woman into labor.

Sammy had been on the ball. After they figured out the Impala wouldn't run, he'd arranged Maggie in the backseat with Dean sitting behind her. He'd delivered the baby on his coat and wrapped her in a spare flannel shirt. And he'd been the one who looked at her yellowed body and heard her odd breathing and said, "Dean, something's wrong."

It can be very dangerous having a child when you have a positive blood type and your partner has a negative one.

Dean blames himself for not taking Maggie to a doctor, but they were on the run and she'd refused. They hadn't known if the baby would be born human or necromancer (His wife is half of one, along with a quarter incubus, but that's another story), and necromancers (Real ones, not those "stupid, arrogant blood witch wannabes" as his wife would say) are not born with human bodies.

Dean had wrapped himself and the baby in his jacket and had started the long walk to Bloomington in the freezing cold air. It was and has been the most terrifying thing he's ever done. Because that was his child, his baby, and she was so tiny and fragile and close to dying. He'd been so damned scared by the tidal wave of that thought, that she could _die_, he'd about thrown up.

He walked ten miles in the freezing January night, singing Zeppelin and talking to his daughter, making promises.

"I'm gonna send you to school. And get a house. No hotel hopping for you, baby girl."

"I'm gonna marry your mama. I don't know if she'll want to do it the Jewish or Christian way, or if she wants it to be religious at all, but I'll do it."

"I'm gonna make sure you don't date until I'm dead. And ten years after that."

"I'm gonna love you forever. I swear."

He made it to the hospital at 4:13 in the morning of January 28th, two hours later. The nurses had to pry her from his arms and when the doctor told him that he couldn't follow them into the NICU room, Dean slammed the man into the wall and told them exactly what orifice he could shove that idea into.

They sent an ambulance to get Sam and Maggie, and the three of them sat in a hospital room for the longest hour of their lives waiting for news.

She's fine, but she'll stay there for two more weeks before they let them go.

So, yes, Dean is overprotective. Because he almost lost her and he can't go through that again.

* * *

Bobby really hates driving.

She contemplates this as she pulls out of the parking garage in the Ford Fiesta she bought but doesn't really like (One could say she was spoiled by the Impala). Boston is a clusterfuck to drive through if you're not a native and no one knows it better than herself. It seems like blasphemy, one of those things that she'll never tell her parents. like how she's not a virgin and has read the Twilight saga.

The Fiesta is weird to drive. She had a nice little Volkswagen Bug cera 1994 when she was sixteen, but it was totaled in her big car crash. The other driver ran a light and hit her on the passenger's side, sending her into oncoming traffic. She'd managed to kick out the windshield and crawl out, despite her dislocated left shoulder (which is a bitch when you're left handed). As she was climbing out, she had sunk a piece of glass into her side.

After all the stitches and a nice, tight swing, her father had given her the keys into an Impala and said, "She's yours now. Take care of her. Wash her, wax her, rub her with a diaper."

She finally gets out of Boston and heads west, towards home. She needs to get her car back.

When she pulls up, the Impala is sitting in the driveway, all black and gleamy. God, she loves that car.

Her parents don't live at Bobby's house anymore. They used to when she was younger, but they moved when she was eight. Uncle Sam finally convinced Amelia to leave Texas when they got engaged and they live there now. Her parents found a nice little cottage deep in the woods, surrounded by lilac bushes and lupines. She loves it.

The lights are blaring from the living room and nowhere else, and Uncle Sam's car is in the driveway as well, so either it's a basketball game or a _Dr. Sexy, MD _rerun marathon (they still watch it after all these years).

Her mom hasn't locked the back door after all this time.

Bobby eases the door open, know exactly here it creaks after many a time creeping back home after going somewhere after hours (She was only caught once (last second gift getting), thus ending her career as a sneak). The kitchen is dark and empty and she hears her dad hooting from the other end of the house. She walks down the hall, looking at all of the family photos framed on the wall. There's the one of her dressed up as Snow White, her parent's wedding photo's, her having a tea party with Cas.

It makes her happy and sad and confused all at the same time.

Bobby reaches the living room and stands in the back of the room, watching her family holler at the TV. Mom and Dad are wrapped around each other on the couch, Uncle Sam is sitting on the recliner with Amelia on his lap, and her cousin John (their fifteen year old son) is lounging on the floor.

In fact, he's the first one to see her.

John gets up to go get more Cheetos and stops in front of the TV, causing an uproar.

"Bobby?"

She smiles sadly. "Hey."

Her mother lets out a squeal and jumps over the couch to hug her. She's passed around to Sam and Amelia, getting the life squeezed out of her.

And then she gets to her dad.

She wants to be eaten alive more than she wants to look at her father, but she manages to. He's got more wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead and his hair seem darker. She's tall, almost 5'9, but he seems taller and bigger than Uncle Sam right now.

She finally squeaks out, "Hi, Daddy.'

He visibly relaxes and says, "Hi, Rhubarb."

She starts crying as he pulls her into his chest, gripping her as tight as he possibly can without breaking her.

* * *

Later, after everyone has gone home, Dean sits down stairs in the breakfast nook, watching the TV on the counter, spoon digging into a half empty tin of Dutch Apple pie. His wife went to bed earlier and Bobby's setting up her room to its former glory. He's glad; he needs a moment to collect his thoughts.

His daughter's back and he doesn't know how to feel. Happy she's home, angry she left, relieved she's alright. It's a whirlwind of emotions and he doesn't know what to do.

Damn, he sounds like a chick flick.

He hears some soft footsteps and looks up. His daughter is standing there in her fuzzy pants and his old t-shirt, leaning against the door frame. "Want something to drink?'

"You got beer?"

"What kind of question is that? 'You got beer?' Of course I have beer!"

She grins and gets two cold ones out of the fridge, along with a spoon from the drawer, and scoots in next to him on the bench. They both take a swig and watch a story about an elephant and a dog who are best friends. Bobby eats a bite of pie and puts her head on his shoulder.

And all is right with the world.


End file.
